Father and Son
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: What were Thomas Wayne's thoughts as he died? And what about Damian Wayne/ Robin? All that father and son never said to Bruce Wayne/ Batman, and wished they had. One-shot.


_Father and Son_

_For those that lost loved ones._

* * *

_Thomas_

I see the gun move, I hear the hollow sound of the shot, the brightness of powder exploding in the man's hand. And I feel: it's a sharp pain, a hot spear that goes through my chest, followed by unpleasant release of blood that comes in a sudden burst.

That's when all goes in slow motion, and I know I'm about to die.

Martha screams, and there's another loud sound – it's a second shot. Next to me, no, around me, pearls fall. Bright little spheres that bounce close to my ear, and roll away from me. Martha is quiet now. She comes down next to me, one of her beautiful, soft hands resting immobile over my arm. And below me, I feel the cold cement getting damp and warm, a pool of her vivid blood growing under us.

I realize my wife is dead.

There are other sounds, now getting more and more distant, muffled sounds as my brain is starting to get numb and slow. As I'm dying. But I can still tell, I can discern Bruce's soft cry, and the quick steps of the man as he run away from us. And Bruce saying, is his gentle, young voice: _no, dad, no… mommy… no…_

There are tears in my eyes.

My son weeps. He's near me, and he reaches to touch my bloody chest, his face a mess of streaming tears, sweat, fear, pain. My Bruce. He's always such a little man, so serious and well behaved, so smart. I used to worry about him, I used to think to myself that he needed more attention and encouragement, that he needed _me_, his father, to tell him he could more like a kid and less responsible…

And now I'll never be able to.

He doesn't scream or asks for help – there's already people around us, and they are calling the police and trying to reanimate Martha. It's vain. My wife, my dear, gorgeous wife, my sweet Martha… she's gone. I taste blood in my mouth and I feel my heart, my irregular, failing heart, go wild. I know the shot has perforated an artery, and I can't breathe. Lungs filling with blood. Brain dying.

My eyesight is almost gone. Blackness approaches. Uncertainty. Unknown. And at the center of it all, my Bruce.

I wish I could tell him… so much.

I'll never be able to.

He sobs quietly, he takes my hand and clasps it between his slender, nervous fingers. I look at him and no words come out from my lips. No goodbyes, no farewells, no last advice for my only son. No telling him I loved him deeply, more than he would ever know. No telling him my regrets, how I'm sorry I hadn't been able to be with him as much as he deserved. There was so much I left for later. So much wasted time, so many moments I took for granted.

I'll never be able to tell him that the day he was born was the best day of my life.

I'll never be able to tell him I'm proud of him.

I'll never be able to tell him that nothing matters. Nothing. Nothing in this life is as important as this: the time I had with him and his mother, the role I played in his life, the way his mother changed my life.

And all I ever wish, Bruce, is for you to be happy.

Fill your life with love, son.

* * *

_Damian_

I'm dying, father. I'm dying.

Father… You are not here. You will punish yourself for that, and you won't forgive yourself. I'm so sorry, father. This is not what I wanted. I was a fool, father. A fool.

I wanted you to be proud of me, and I wanted to show you I needed no one.

I was wrong, father.

Now, at the end of all things, as silence fill my ears, I can finally see…

All I ever wanted, really wanted, was to be your son. To be a _child_. I tried to show you I was strong, skilled, smart… I wanted you to take me seriously and to respect me.

But, father, now I know that what I _needed_ was none of that.

It's dark, and it's cold. And all I wanted was that you could hold me and comfort me, as a father does to his small children. The small child I never was. The son that never could fit in your arms.

Father: I don't hate my mother. Not for all she did today, not for her hand in my death. I only wish she could have loved me as a mother does, and that she hadn't robbed from me the only precious thing I have…

A family.

My brothers.

My father.

If only there was time…

For you to look at me and see…

See the best in me.

See all I've learned from you.

See that never a boy was as proud of his father as I am of you.

I'm you _son_. And that, no one will ever be able to take from me. Not even death, or what lies beyond this world.

Batman and son…

Forever.

Xxx


End file.
